


Something Lost

by yuletide_archivist



Category: Le Pacte des Loups | Brotherhood of the Wolf (2001)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-12-21
Updated: 2005-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 04:38:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,030
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1632020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuletide_archivist/pseuds/yuletide_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Mani's death and while Marianne is resting from her attack, Thomas provides a measure of comfort to Fronsac.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Something Lost

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Fuschia

 

 

After leaving Marianne to rest, the worst of her condition past, Thomas guided Fronsac to join him in the parlor. The wine flowed freely and quite heavily, sparsely dotted with small talk. One bottle of the finest produced by the Marquis' vineyard slowly began to take effect.

Ever since Mani's death Thomas had not seen Fronsac truly grieve for the Indian. Events that occurred afterward happened so quickly he barely had time to breathe. Now, in the room alone with no one to witness except Thomas, Fronsac's tears came steadily. Silent, solitary and shed for something lost.

"I have something for you," Thomas said. He went to the writing desk and pulled a small box from a locked drawer. Back at the settee, he stood in front of Fronsac and held it out.

Thomas watched Fronsac take a pained breath, his fingers stroking over the lid, shaking and uncertain. The look on his face was surprise, then relief. "I thought it was gone."

He left it in Fronsac's hand and picked up his glass again. "After we were informed of your arrest, I found this next to what I suppose was his funeral pyre."

"Thank you."

He shrugged and walked to the fireplace, leaning against the mantle. Thomas took a deep drink from his wine. "He was a good man."

Fronsac's lips pressed into a firm line. "He was a good man... _for a savage_."

"I mean, he was a good _man_."

His sad eyes looked up and Thomas thought his heart would surely break. Would he ever be loved this way? Missed with such a deep longing as to stir the blood of witnesses when he was gone?

"But he's not here." Fronsac stood and joined Thomas at the fire. He set the box on the mantle and finished off the rest of his wine, placing the glass next to Mani's ashes.

"No, Chevalier, he is not," Thomas responded softly.

"You are."

"Yes." Thomas' breath caught when fingers, not quite so nimble due to the wine, unbound his hair and combed through it. Certainly the sentiment of tenderness was there, if not present in fact.

"How can I ease your pain?" Thomas whispered. Their faces were so close that the warmth of Fronsac's breath wafted across Thomas' mouth, intoxicating, though not from the wine they'd shared, but the desire that flared brightly through him.

Fronsac leaned forward and pressed his lips to the corner of Thomas' mouth. "Have you lain with a man before, Thomas d'Apcher?"

"I am not unfamiliar with the act. Although," Thomas' cheeks heated from anticipation, "it has been a long time. I am not free to pursue those things as freely here as if I were in Paris."

"Come to bed with me, Marquis," Fronsac's voice was rough, choking around the words as he buried his face in Thomas' neck, lips moving lightly over the offered flesh when he tilted his head.

Thomas set his glass aside and pulled away, his hand held out to Fronsac. He couldn't take him to the room Fronsac and Mani had shared. Even he knew the memories were too poignant to bear.

In Thomas' room, a flickering candle cast shadows against the wall; two figures as they collided in a hungry embrace once the door was shut.

Their mouths crushed together, Thomas could taste the wine still on Fronsac's tongue. Perhaps it was the wine, but the ache of loneliness spoke to Thomas too, with a much stronger pull, and he toppled over with Fronsac onto his bed, desire his drive as his hands moved swiftly to remove their clothing.

He knew it wasn't him Fronsac sought his pleasure in. His skin was too fair, his hair too pale and fine, his scent too civilized. Thomas knew he was simply a vessel to fill the longing and need, and to assuage the drunken man's grief.

Thomas envied Fronsac in that. To have a companion so close they could even share intimacy in its rawest form, flying in the face of Catholic sentiment concerning two men who lay together. And not care.

Despite being drunk, Fronsac was tender in readying him and he opened willingly for what was to come. The press of their bodies was sharp and Thomas clung, panting, his nails digging into Fronsac's back until his body relaxed and the minor pain faded to something much more pleasant.

They moved together, the silence punctuated with their moans and the creaking protests of the bed frame. No useless talk - only Fronsac taking what he needed from Thomas; Thomas giving what he needed to Fronsac in return.

In the morning, Fronsac would make preparations to go to Africa and take Marianne with him, leaving Thomas behind. Not that he was bitter about it; Fronsac had extended an invitation to accompany them.

He couldn't. Thomas knew his place was there with his grandfather; to help rebuild Gévaudan and to be groomed for the title when the old man passed from the earth.

Thomas took the small comfort afforded him in the arms of the man he grew to know as friend and in turn gave back to Fronsac in kind - a memorial for Mani and, if only for a moment, to help ease the man's deep sorrow. He prayed it was enough for them both.

Sweaty and heaving, both reached their release to whimpers and gasps and softly whispered names. Thomas watched as the alcohol and exertion claimed Fronsac, dragging the man into a deep sleep. Rising up on to his elbow, he brushed the course blond hair from Fronsac's face. It was a face that wouldn't see peace for some time.

It was a face Thomas wouldn't forget.

He rode out with Fronsac and Marianne, waving good bye to them from the borders of his grandfather's province. Perhaps she could give Fronsac what he couldn't. That thought cut him more deeply than he would have liked to admit.

When they disappeared from view, Thomas turned back for town. He didn't bother going to see his grandfather, heading to the bordello instead. Bottle of wine in one hand, his favorite whore in the other, Thomas grieved for something now lost.

 


End file.
